It was the Friday following Easter Weekend, and my friends in my adopted homeland had spent the week bragging that they’d spent more time at home than at the office in the last 7 days.

What was the reason for this influx of bank holidays? Wills was getting hitched.

Cue appropriate pomp and circumstance. And an embarrassing number of posts on my Facebook Wall asking how I was coping with the fact that my first teenage crush would be officially off the market by the end of the week.

I desperately wanted to stay home and watch the wedding. The still relatively new novelty of DSL meant I would be able to stream it Live. For once, time zones were due to be in my favour. But I was supposed to be at school. And my after-school clubs had finally picked up some momentum.

I was torn: Be a good PCV or indulge my inner Anglophile.

I was up late debating my proposed course of action with a similarly conflicted PCV on the computer. It was approaching midnight and I was still undecided. It’s not every day a Prince gets married. But the prospect of having more than two kids show up to club for more than two days in a row doesn’t happen every day either.

Then my landlady came bustling into the room:

LL: Melissa. That was my son. I need to go take care of his kids. He has to go to Baku tomorrow. He’s coming right now to pick me up.

M: Oh. Is everything OK?

LL: Would it be OK if you stayed home and fed the chickens and watched the dogs tomorrow? I know you are supposed to go to school, but I don’t want the dogs to be left unattended all day.

M *trying to sound at least a little bit put out*: If you need me to I will. They won’t miss me for a day.

When I relayed the conversation to my friend, she laughed and observed that only in Azerbaijan would keeping an eye on chickens and house-pets be an acceptable excuse to skip school.

So I got my justification in the end, and I spent all day Friday in front of my computer watching the BBC’s Live Feed of The Wedding accordingly, after making sure the chickens and dogs were fed and watered.

My Thoughts:

- I want an excuse to visit a haberdashery, mostly because haberdashery is such an awesome word.

- Pippa had the nicer dress. Harry had the nicer uniform.

- I muddled ‘God Save the Queen’ with ‘My Country ‘Tis Of Thee’, but cried during ‘Jerusalem’

- I think the Duke of Carrickfergus (or however you spell it) is quite possibly the best title ever.

- I want a yellow search and rescue helicopter to do a fly by during my honeymoon send-off.

- Dear Woman In The Crowd: It is not OK to cut up flags to make a dress! At least not where I come from (maybe I’m not as British as I pretend to be after all)

Remember the village host sister who upon her return from Russia called the ankle-biting two year old to her side, only to discover that I was the person he considered an ‘aunt’ instead? I can’t remember if I told that story to the world at large. But it was a pretty amusing.

Fast-forward a year:

She is the director of the village kindergarten/daycare. One Thursday morning as I was sitting on the couch watching her rush around getting ready for work, I had an idea. If I was just going to sit around my host family’s house for four hours on a Thursday morning, why couldn’t I help her out at the kindergarten for an hour or two?

So I started going to the kindergarten for an hour on Thursdays. It gives the teachers a break and I like to pretend the kids are actually learning some English.

In the end: I think I managed to teach them the colours of the rainbow and a handful of animal names. And “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”.

There are good days when the kids actually generate words rather than simply repeat what I am saying. (Not that I can hold this against them they are just learning the alphabet in Azerbaijani.) And approximately 70% of the kids are paying attention.

There are bad days when the kids get way too excited about my little animal figurines or markers. It is amazing how difficult it is to get twenty 5 year olds to sit in a circle. On these days I am just grateful to get one kid to listen to me (and hope that the rest of them don’t injure themselves as they climb over and under the furniture.)

In conclusion: I stand by my previous threat to bypass the toddler years entirely through adopting 5 year olds. But maybe it’s easier if there isn’t a foreign language involved. Maybe…

My carpool neighbour has been badgering me to tutor his two young school age boys since I moved in next door.

I was conflicted by this on two counts:

1. He speaks fluent English: Why can’t he do it? Especially since they go to school in Russian (and therefore are learning English through Russian.)

2. If I tutor one kid at home, the word will get out and I’ll have to tutor everyone. (I learned this the hard way).

But….

-The dude has been giving me a ride to work everyday without complaint.

-I actually like the 2nd and 3rd form textbooks.

-After Novruz my schedule was looking pretty empty.

A compromise: Round up another half-dozen classmates and I will hold a primary school club on Saturday mornings.

It has been a success. We review the simple vocabulary that is in the class textbooks: Colours, Animals, House, Family, Fruits and Vegetables. We act out dialogues.

But I’m not going to lie: we spend most of the time singing songs: ‘cause it’s Saturday and all the kids involved are under the age of 10.

Now I have to admit most of songs in questions are ones I’ve poached from other places and then altered to suit my needs: Ten Little Indians became Ten Little Rabbits. And the ones I didn’t change are definitely not musically faithful to the original. But that’s OK because the world always needs a little bit more “Head Shoulders Knees and Toes”.

Even if I can’t keep the kids’ names straight.

For most of the spring I had to take the oil company bus to work every day. It’s a good thing I am a morning person.

I have developed quite a rapport with other commuters. Anyone who makes the mistake of sitting in ‘my’ seat faces the ‘wrath’ of the entire bus.

There are the ladies that sit behind me, who are constantly bickering about whose brother I should be betrothed to. There is the cravat wearing old man, who greets me with a smile as soon as he steps into the bus. There is the woman who gets mad when the man with questionable hygiene sits next to me. There are my neighbour’s relatives who walk home from the bus stop with me.

Of course there are still moments of cultural discord.

- The constant reminders that I am going to ruin my eyes if I continue to read as we bounce over the pock-marked asphalt. To which I reply: Then I better read as much as I can before I go blind.

- The good-natured jibes about how I need to get married immediately. My retort: “I have time” - is usually met with good-natured laughter, and the subject is dropped until the next day.

- The disapproving looks on the days my skirt doesn’t quite cover my knees. But there is also the skirt that the ladies swear is an ancient Azerbaijani pattern. (I don’t have the heart to tell them I bought it at TJMaxx.)

But I have recently been re-christened with an Azerbaijani-friendly version of my name - apparently off some Turkish soap opera.

So I am going to consider my commute a cultural integration success. Just don’t ask me to spell my new name. Or threaten to take my books away.

Remember that time I promised I would update regularly since that I have DSL upstairs now?

The calendar in the sidebar tells me that was sometime back in April (or Month 19). Oops.

What can I say? My fan-girl tendencies are detrimental to my productivity. Don’t judge. You know you have a guilty pleasure too.

Now it’s June. Or Month 21. (Six months!). School’s been out for three weeks. And Rafa has reclaimed Roland Garros from Roger. Which has inspired me to tackle the ever-expanding Word Document of Blog Post Titles. (The good intentions were there!).

So I have something like 72 hours before I head off on the great Summer Camp Circuit 2011. Let’s see how many of these snapshots of life in Azerbaijan I can type out before I leave home for the foreseeable future.

With luck I might be able to remember how to properly construct a sentence in English. (Something which is clearly beyond my grasp at the moment.)

I bump into people quite frequently; it is a side-effect of being perpetually unable to walk in a straight line.

In my previous life this simply meant dodging moving vehicles and velocipeds (it occurs to me that last word may not be English, but I like the alliteration) and mumbling apologies and excuses to anyone I inconvenienced en-route to wherever I was headed.

It turns out there is a little bit more ceremony involved in these encounters in Azerbaijan. The idea: ‘əlu ver’ – a social nicety that translates as ‘give me your hand.’

When I first arrived in country, this concept confused my culture shock addled mind. I didn’t understand why when I bumped into someone on the street or stepped on their toes (literally – the figurative instances are a whole different category), they would turn around and offer me their hands. Just because I was a foreigner and clearly lacked any sort of social grace didn’t mean that you could use any excuse to make my acquaintance.

I would stare dumbly at the offered limb until it crossed into my personal space and squeezed my hand.

Eventually I realized that this misshapen meet-and-greet served another purpose – a gesture of apology. But even once I understood the intention behind it – it would still take me more than a fraction of a second to act in the way that I knew was expected of me. And extended arms were forced to take the initiative. I did get a little better about this but it was still a jolt to the system – I like my bubble; stay out of it.

Finally somewhere between the awkward outcome of an unintentional game of footsie with Latifa my during first month in the village and the well-intentioned ‘xamins’ who have jostled me on the bus for the last year and a half, I have finally acquired the muscle memory to complete this social grace without delay.

“Əlu Ver”: Unconscious Acts of Assimilation Achieved

- A woman stepped on my toes getting off the bus and my hand was outstretched almost before I had processed the pressure on my trainers (or the baby dangling precariously in her arms)

- I was making my way towards the door at “Whole Foods” when I slipped on the mud-guard cardboard, bumping into the shop-keeper stocking the shelves. My hand was extended behind me before I regained my footing (and to a male no less!).

- I just know I am going to need to apologise to the woman I need to climb over to get into my seat on the bus every morning, so I am 80% sure the way I shuffle my bags around before boarding is to accommodate for this fact.

Novruz is the biggest national holiday in Azerbaijan. An observation of the Spring Equinox, it is celebrated on March 20th or 21st. I live in a city, work in a village and have ‘family’ in the capital. Fortunately for me, the city I live in celebrated Novruz on the 20th, which gave me time to visit the village on the 21st for their celebrations; then on the 22nd I woke up early and was in Baku by lunch-time.

On March 20th, I went upstairs after lunch and was put to work in the kitchen alongside my landlady’s daughters-in-law. We laughed and smiled with each other as we baked fish, plucked turkey, dressed a goose and put too much sour cream in the salads. Four hours later we sat down to eat, and it was only half-way through my first helping of fish that I realized I had yet to pick up my fork. I was eating with my hands just like the family around me. After the meal we sat together and made jokes at each other’s expense just like I would have if I was home in America, then other relatives came over to wish us all a happy Novruz.

Although I didn’t get to bed until well after 1AM the night before, I set out for the village I work in as early as I could manage the next day. I stepped on the bus and was immediately greeted by one of the women I usually ride into work with every day. The bus was full due to holiday travel, and I had resigned myself to standing for the 45 minute ride when I heard my name being called from the back of the bus. One of my students was riding back to the village with her family, and she kindly offered me her seat.

I arrived in the village at 11AM. I needed to catch the 3:30PM bus back into the city. This meant I had exactly 4 hours to wish my neighbours and friends in the village a happy Novruz. (The walk to and from the bus stop would take 30 minutes). I had just enough time for one cup of tea and one piece of bakhlava at each house. So off I went. Of course there were protests at every house when I made my excuses after a single cup of tea. But I could see that everyone appreciated the fact that I had made the effort to come to the village during the holiday, and were surprised and pleased by my appearance. The smiles on their faces made the windy wait at the bus stop later that afternoon worthwhile.

Finally on the 22nd I set out for the capital. Even though I live a relatively short distance from the capital (only an hour and a half), I was not particularly thrilled by the thought of a martshurtka trip that necessitated a caffeine-free morning. (Inter-regional travel in Azerbaijan rarely involves clean roadside restrooms). I was even less excited when the driver informed me that I was the last passenger to board. This usually means an extremely uncomfortable ride sandwiched between two other people on a half-size jump seat in the middle of the bus. But I was expected for lunch, and needed to get on the road. So I climbed up and was greeted by yet another unexpectedly friendly face – one of the librarians from the local library and her daughter were also traveling into the capital. So even though I was sandwiched between two people on a half-size jump seat for the majority of the trip, I didn’t mind so much because they were familiar faces.

And there was peach juice and my favorite salad waiting for me upon my arrival at my destination.

Making sure to wish all your friends and family a happy holiday (bayramlaşmaq) can be a juggling act at the best of times, I needed to be in three places at once. It was quite an exhausting 48 hour stretch. But somewhere between the transport chaos, more air-kisses than I can count and more bakalava squares than I care to count, I was struck by a sense of contentment. The time and effort I have put towards cultural intergration made it possible for Norvuz 2011 to be such an overwhelming personal success.

I officially have internet at home in Salyan.

My landlord offered to run a cable downstairs for my personal use. But I opted out of that figuring that I would feel less inclined to spend hours in cyber-space if I had to walk upstairs to use it. The jury’s still out on the effectiveness of that particular game plan.

- My first Skype call was Ata and Ana. They call me more frequently than my ‘American’ parents now. Granted time zones are in their favour.

- Thanks to free US landline calls through GMAIL I can talk to people away from a computer. I wish there was a similar deal for Europe.

- I actually lesson plan for clubs and class now.

- I can read the news in English.

- I have rediscovered the stress relief provided by YouTube and Yahoo.

Ergo, if you want to talk to me in real-time through your own phone, send me your phone number. Or add me on Skype.

When I was in America in December I stocked up on Walmart-priced jigsaw puzzles in preparation for the electricity-less winter ahead. Turns out I didn’t have a chance to open the box before mid-February. And I can only recall one afternoon that was electricity-less.

Anyway…

I had mentioned to my landlady during one of our kitchen chats that I had all these jigsaw puzzles downstairs. She said that when her youngest son was small, jigsaw puzzles had been something of a fixture in their house. So when my landlord came home the next week for a two-week vacation, I brought a puzzle upstairs and we set about putting it together.

We quickly discovered winter landscapes are not the best jumping off point for out-of-practice puzzlers. But we had our 300-piece snow covered masterpiece assembled within an evening or two. Then we worked our way through another two puzzles in the five days before the relatives arrived for Novruz. 2000 pieces in 5 days.

My landlord eventually abandoned our puzzle evenings in favour of trying to figure out why our DSL router still wasn’t working. My landlady and I laughed at his frustration as we were quite happy to continue living a internet-less life. My landlady became mildly obsessed, leaving dishes to pile in the sink and housework undone in favor of puzzle putting together. When Skype was up and running (a week behind schedule), Mom wanted to know exactly what my landlady was doing puttering around the table in concentration.

I just enjoyed spending quality time with the people I live with. It was fun work together creating something. And I was quietly celebratory when my landlady exclaimed night after night: I’ve missed my TV show again! (She watches far too much TV.)

Good old-fashioned fun is under-rated in these technological times.

I usually make myself pancakes every Sunday morning for breakfast. But the first weekend in March, I happened to be away at a friend’s birthday party (and saw snow for the first time all winter!). So I guess it was only appropriate that Fat Tuesday happened to occur upon my return, thus ensuring I got my weekly pancake ration.

I had been telling my Salyan neighbours about the concept of Pancake Day while at dinner at their house the previous week. It was decided that I would bring my cookbook and ingredients over on the Tuesday in question if they could provide the liter of milk.

In a bit of a role-reversal – usually they cook dinner for me – I set about making pancakes fro the entire family. This involved QUADRUPLING the recipe. Within 20 minutes I had a bowl of batter so large I was unconvinced it would be consumed. (It is worth noting it is always a little risky cooking ‘American’ for Azerbaijanis. And I was afraid I would have to eat four dozen pancakes myself.)

And then the stove-gas sputtered out. Problem. Pancakes aren’t exactly the sort of thing you can eat raw. Then again we’re used to random energy outages in Azerbaijan. We got the baby gas-bubble from the yard, (If Grandpa thought my village stove was a fire hazard…) and food prep resumed.

After a half hour of work by a well-oiled assembly line our breakfast-dinner was ready. It was pronounced edible. In between mouthfuls, we discussed the differences between ‘Russian’ and ‘American’ pancakes. There was not a single pancake left for me to take home. Success!

It has since been brought to my attention that the tradition of cooking pancakes on Fat Tuesday is most likely more of a continental European tradition than an American one. Oops. Just another example of my two-for-one cultural exchange value. Or maybe just the fact that I will use any excuse to have breakfast for dinner.

As I mentioned last year March 8th is Women’s Day in Azerbaijan. This year these expected celebrations coincided with three other ‘holidays’, so it was quite an eventful day.

1st: Women’s Day: No school. Gifts and kind words due to the fact that I female. Awesome.

2nd: My landlord’s birthday. See previous blog post about apple cake.

3rd: 1st Novruz Tuesday: Novruz is proceeded by 4 mini-holidays observing the 4 ancient elements: water, air, fire, earth. These holidays are on the Tuesday of every week leading up to Novruz (spring equinox) during the month of March.

4th: Mardi Gras: Fat Tuesday. Pancake Day. (See next post.)

Ergo, I spent most of my day off in the kitchen or drinking tea. But it was fun to have so much going on at once.

I don’t start lessons on Thursday until after noon. But with my new transport options, I am still required to get up at the same early time in order to make it to school on time – even on Thursdays.

The first Thursday in March, I strongly considered ignoring my 6AM alarm and lying in bed all morning. But my sense of responsibility won out and I was at the bus stop as usual if a little bit groggy and grumpy.

So I arrived in the village by 8AM, and wandered towards my old house family’s house. I had some fresh-baked bread and a cup of tea. I was still exhausted so my host sister encouraged me to take a nap, promising to wake me up in time for some lunch before class. A few hours later I was well rested and well-fed and on my way to school.

I strolled into the classroom only to discover it wasn’t the class I was expecting to teach but the one scheduled for the hour after. I looked at Latifa to confirm my suspiscions. It turned out I had got the schedule wrong and I had slept through the class I was expecting.

Bugger! It wasn’t like I had been doing anything important. I had been napping – 800 yards from school.

So I hurried over to my next class. But in my rush I lost my footing in the mud. Of course I am well practiced in the art of falling down, so the only evidence of my fall was the mud on my hands. I could deal with that. And the older boys pointing and laughing could just be ignored. I stood up and refused help from a student coming the other way.

I walked another 10 feet and fell again. This time it was in such spectacular fashion I had mud everywhere from my face to the hem of my calf-length coat. Wonderful! School was no longer an option.

This time one of the laughing boys told his friends to stop, and came over to help me manage the 500 feet to my neighbours’ house. Where I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for the bus.

Thus, as my Salyan neighbours so kindly pointed out when I stopped by before dinner: “Melissa. You went to the village just to fall down”. Sad, but true. Next time I’ll just stay in bed.

(The title of this blog post is a reference to another PCV’s tumble that was so epic it spawned ‘an award’.)

March 1st was Peace Corps 50th anniversary. (It was also my little sister’s birthday). I had every intention of acknowledging this particular milestone with some sort of catchy poem about world peace or an appropriately PC-service-themed list of 50. (It might have also been worthwhile to try and get it posted on the ‘birthday’ in question…)

But I am lazy. (I didn’t send my sister a birthday card either.)

Instead I present the story I’ve been meaning to post on this blog since my first month in country. ‘Avtobus On-Iki’. Which incidentally, if I ever get around to publishing a “My Life in The Peace Corps Book” will be the title story.

Avtobus On-Iki.

It was the first or second week of PST, I had just gotten home from the first hub day in Sumgayit, and Ana asked me which bus I’d had to take. I replied in Azerbaijani – I had learned to count the previous day: on-iki. (12). She mimed the clunky slow motion that chracterised the WWII relic of a bus I had just gotten off: ‘Starii Avtobus?’ she questioned. (In those early weeks, Russian was our mutually intelligible lingua franca.) I nodded and she laughed sympathetically. Oh Avtobus on-iki.

The moniker of this slow-moving bus became a familial code-word that encompassed any sort of frustrating circumstance: a difficult verb tense, a miscommunication between friends, a visit from obnoxious relatives, a thwarted lesson plan, an uncooperative colleague, a less than ideal housing situation or any of the other little things that make up the sometimes exhausting effort of living day-to-day in the regions of Azerbaijan.

The fact that I now live in a region where the buses that come down my local roads often look much older than the original ‘Avtobus On-Iki’ should have been my first clue that Avtobus On-Iki would become a larger part of my life than I ever could have imagined on that first October evening when Ana playfully mimed it.

And yes, I do mutter ‘avtobus on-iki’ to myself on an almost daily basis - it has become my go-to personal catharsis for any number of small annoyances from the lack of a seat on a marshutka to the afternoons when the electricity goes out just as I’ve put a batch of cookies in the oven. And it finds its way into almost every conversation I have with Ata and Ana as I talk about my life at site. Whatever it is doesn’t seem quite so catastrophic if there is an ‘avtobus on-iki’ tagged on at the end – it lessens the sting.

Avtobus On-iki – those six unassuming syllables that allow us to communicate so much. I can express a dozen sentiments with a simple phrase in my phone calls ‘home’. We sympathise with each other when discouraged. We lament misfortunes and complain about injustices. We laugh ourselves out of bad moods. We say it sarcastically, ironically and playfully- sometimes within a single exchange. We throw it into conversations around people who have no idea what it represents and smile conspiratorially at its significance.

Our collection of family words has since expanded beyond the bus numbers of early days and has since been supplemented by other circumstances, family members and PVCs. But it is ‘Avtobus On-Iki’ that is the genesis of this familial lexicon, the one that is instantly understood and brings a smile to our faces no matter how exasperating the situation that occasions its use.

And that brings us up-to-date through the winter: November, December, January and February. Admittedly there are fewer entries than there probably would have been if I’d been able to stick to my original fort-nightly schedule. And for that I apologise. But the important (cyber-friendly) bits are here. I promise. (You’ll just have to by the extended and uncut edition in paperback form upon my return. Haha.)

Unfortunately, time has this pesky habit of moving forward, so even though I managed to fit four months into four weeks of updates, I am still playing catch up. Why can’t March have 41 days? Didn’t Julius Caesar fiddle with the calendar at some point? I blame him.

Even though school is back in session, I will try very hard to get March and April up for your reading pleasure before April ends.

Also, I’ve been in Azerbaijan for 18 months now – it might be 19 - as of April 1st. Weird.

By this point in my service everyone who has talked to me, read this blog or knows next to nothing about me - knows that Ata and Ana are pretty much the awesome-est in-country family a girl could ask for. And I’m not just saying that. I’ve had completely impartial sources confirm this point of view.

Ata and Ana take such good care of me and such an interest in my life sometimes it feels like they are actually my biological family. This is especially true when they say things that my ‘actual’ family has been known to say. Such as these two occasions… Italics emphasise my point.

On the phone…

M: Hi!

Ata: Hi! How are you?

M: I’m good.

Ata: Guess What? I talked to PCV K* on Skype last night. Why don’t you have Skype at home yet?

M: I live in Salyan.

Ata: Oh. Right.

M: But my landlord says he is going to install it soon. I will let you know.

Ata: Tell him to do it fast.

M: OK. I will. Bye.

*PVC K is an AZ8 who stayed next door for PST.

On Skype… A Week Later

Ata: Hi Melissa! Are you calling us from Salyan?

M: No. I’m in Baku.

Ata: But why didn’t you come to stay with us?

M: I had to go to the hospital. (See next post)

Ana: *running in from the other room* What did you do? Are you all right?

M: *lifts foot to show bandaged big toe to webcam* I’m fine. This is what happened.

Ata: That looks like a big bandage.

Ana: OK. But are you sure you’re OK?

M: I’m fine. But I have to stay at a hotel tonight. (I used the Russian word for hotel)

Ata: She will be fine. And Melissa, you mean *insert Azerbaijani for hotel*

M: Yes, Ata. * repeats Azerbaijani for hotel*. I’ll call when I get home. Bye.

I hate my feet.

I understand that feet are a rather important part of the human anatomy. But honestly, the pair I was born with are more trouble than they are worth most of the time. Even in Azerbaijan.

I was cutting my tone-nails one Tuesday night (Yes. I lead an exciting life.) - When the latest pedial (is that a word?) mishap occurred. I managed to cause some drama with my big toe. There was blood and gauze involved.

But I put a plaster on it and went limping about my daily business. The big toe is actually quite an important body part, which is something you don’t realize until it has impaired function. Until Day 6. When I decided it was probably a good idea to go visit the doctor before my toe fell off due to gangrene. (I hasten to clarify: It wasn’t actually infected.)

So I skipped school that Friday, slept in an extra hour and caught a taxi to Baku. Now I have to admit that I totally expected the PeaceCorps doctor to give me the proverbial slap on the wrist for bothering him with something so silly before sending me home on an afternoon bus. Accordingly I brought my computer, the books I’d finished reading and some money for lunch.

So imagine my surprise at the following diagnosis: I’ll see if I can get you an appointment with a surgeon this afternoon.

Pardon? Surely, there was a translation barrier at work here. A surgeon for my toe! What exactly were they planning to do? Amputate it? It wasn’t a funny colour. Surely that wasn’t necessary. It turns out it was - the surgeon that is – not the amputation.

Later that afternoon I was sitting in an exam room at one of the Baku medical clinics. An English-speaking doctor explained to me what he planned to do to my toe, and confirmed my willingness for treatment after every sentence. Then he set to work. There were a few painful minutes when the doctor - refusing to believe my protests that the anesthesia hadn’t set in yet – started slicing a little bit prematurely. Otherwise it was an uneventful procedure. I survived. But missed my bus home.

I hadn’t been planning to spend the night. But I managed to borrow a t-shirt from the communal clothes pile in PCV lounge at the office and bought a toothbrush. I was not impressed the doctor had decreed no shower for 36 hours. Why else do PCVs come into Baku if not for the hot water on-demand?

But the fun doesn’t end there. The weather was very unpleasant – I stepped in a puddle getting off the bus at the hotel, therefore soaking my freshly bandaged foot. But winter in Baku warrants three pairs of socks, so although I was paranoid over dinner that my foot was going to fall off due to some sort of water-borne infection– the bandage stayed dry.

The random throbbing pain in my foot meant that I didn’t sleep well. But there was wireless internet at the hotel, so I was able to Skype with (both sets of) parents, some friends and surf YouTube until 3AM.

All in all it was a fairly harmless visit necessitated by my own carelessness. Hopefully this will be the only time I need to visit the doctor while in PeaceCorps.

One of the reasons my new house in the city feels like paradise is the gas heater in my living room. Fortunately for me, after PCV L moved out, my landlord replaced the old wood stove with a radiator style heater. Which was probably a good life choice on his part. If I’d had to figure out how to light the gas in a wood-burning style stove I would have probably burned the house down.

My landlady was (rightfully) skeptical of my ability to light the gas heater even with the improved heating unit. So for the first few weeks that I lived in my house, she would always light the pech (stove/heater) for me before I got home from school. Which had the added benefit of making the house warm BEFORE I walked through the door at 6PM.

But after a few weekends and tutorial from a PCV far more adept in pech-lighting than I will ever be, I was confident in my pech-lighting ability. The Golden Rule: Light the paper BEFORE turning on the gas. Pretty straight-forward. As long as you can get the paper to stay lit, while the gas cycles through the pipes.

Until a Thursday afternoon in February…

My landlady and I spent a few hours in her kitchen talking about various kitchen inspired topics. (Oh! Future blog post…) Then one of the neighbour’s kids came over to ask some questions about her Russian homework. So I went downstairs and set about lighting the pech by myself.

But the paper was refusing to stay lit. So I had to try a second time. Still didn’t work. So I tried to get it to catch a third time. (It may have been the fourth try. Counting has never been my strong point). And this time I was rewarded with a SONIC BOOM!

(Font is supposed to convey the KA-BOOM factor). It shook the glass. And brought my landlady running downstairs. (The nieghbour’s kid watched over the balcony half-hidden). But there was no giant fire ball. I still had all my limbs and eyebrows.

Of course my pride was a little bit worse for wear after the scolding I got from my landlady.

Needless to say I was taken off pech-lighting duty for another few weeks.

Also, as a result of this, I officially admire the people who do stuff with the speed of sound for a living. It can’t be good for the ear drums or the nerves.

I go to the library on Monday mornings for my Azerbaijani lessons.

One Monday I was sitting around after my lesson talking to the women that meet there outside of the usual club times for their own personal English enrichment. It turns out that this little gathering was part of a new scheme set up by PCV E and the library staff: Every Monday is Women’s Day. Excellent.

I decided to offer my services. I missed having the library as part of my weekly schedule (If you remember I all but lived at the library last summer.) And so “Famous Women Hour” was born. The aim of this club is to provide more information about the achievements of women in history and in the news today. I have to admit I’m more than a little bit excited about this project. And I’m learning stuff too.

So far we have talked about Women in Medicine and Women in Sport. There are plans to talk about Women in Politics and Women in Religion. There is also a baking extravaganza on the calendar in honour of Novruz, so I feel it would only be appropriate if Julia Child made an appearance.

Did You Know?

- Clara Barton’s real first name was Clarissa.

- 2010 was the UN Year of the Nurse in honour of the centennial of Florence Nightngale’s death.

- Nadia Comaneci lived in Oklahoma after her defection from Romania

- Hilary Clinton had a higher annual salary than Bill until he was elected President.

- Indira Ghandi held office for 15 years- the world’s longest serving female Prime Minister.

How do I pass the time on my new 45-minute commute every morning?

It is actually a quite enjoyable hour of my day. Here are some of the things we’ve discussed or done in the last four weeks as we’ve made our way to work…

International Football: (I lied. This was on the way home one day).

Running to catch the bus one day corresponded with half-time in an Azerbaijan International Friendly football match. So all the men on the bus were discussing the score. But on my way out the door Azerbaijan had scored again, so the information circulating around the bus wasn’t in real time. I jumped into the conversation to ‘correct’ the score.

Needless to say, my two cents caused quite a stir. Apparently, it is un-lady-like to watch football. What? I visited with my World Cup neighbours that afternoon. It was only natural that there had been football on the TV. But mostly, the men were just grateful for the score update.

Weather Forecasts:

One morning in February there happened to be frost on the ground during our drive. (This winter has been incredibly mild.) My neighbour tried to explain the plot of an old Azerbaijani movie to me. I have since forgotten the name. But the plot centres around the fact that when the national weather forecast station breaks down, the meteorologists rely on an old man to predict the weather with the assistance of his aching joints.

Proverbs

We have spent many mornings trading proverbs and idioms. I wish I’d been able to write some of them down. I can’t remember most of them. But it is a good little bit of cultural exchange considering it is barely 8AM when we are en-route.

Karaoke

My favorite mornings are the ones when my neighbour offers to give me a ride in his personal car. This has the double-barrelled advantage of me being able to sleep for an extra hour and speak solely English until I get to school. The fact that we sing along to the 80’s music on his MP3 player is just an added bonus that puts an extra kick in my Friday mornings.

So yes. The trip is long And sometimes I pine for the days when I stayed in my PJs until 10AM. But I try to make the best of it.

In the middle of our second winter in Azerbaijan we have our Mid-Service Conference. Which is exactly what it’s name suggests – a conference to mark the mid-way point in our service. It is conveniently scheduled during the most unpleasant part of the year, so that we have something to look forward to - and something fun to look back on during the rest of the winter.

This year’s conference was scheduled for the end of January, so it took place a little bit earlier than we were expecting. But last year’s February conference coincided with a snowstorm, so I can understand the schedule shuffle.

By and large it was your standard Peace Corps conference. It was definitely overwhelming to see every member of AZ7 gathered in one place – this was the first time we had all been together since our first week in Azerbaijan. There was lots of time spent sharing experiences and an unnecessary number of photocopies. There was a panel discussion with RPCVs about Life After Peace Corps. I can’t believe it’s already time to start worrying about that. I still have 11 months left! (Or I had 11 months at the time.) But I guess I have to join the ‘real world’ eventually. Scary!

But there were also some unique elements – a particular AZ7 flair – to proceedings.

A group decision was made that we really didn’t want to wear business casual to the conference. Instead (almost) everyone showed up wearing an Azerbaijan tracksuit. There was nothing staff could say if we were all wearing one. In fact, by Day 2 some of the staff members were wearing theirs.

I am particularly proud of my tracksuit. In true procrastinator fashion I waited until the morning before to purchase mine. But it was definitely a talking point at the conference. It is a windbreaker style – complete with hood. The colouring is more fluorescent than realistic but I’m OK with that. Originally I had planned to pass my tracksuit onto Mom – the true sportswoman in the family - after it’s weekend of use, but I don’t really want to part with it after all. Sorry Mom!

In the evenings I found myself involved in marathon games of Scrabble. Most of time it was a team effort in some form. At one point: there were four of us trying to make sense of a particularly trying set of letters. All in all: we converted a few more people to the wonders of Scrabble; came up with some pretty excellent words (ARGYLE, sadly not mine.) and had to consult an iPhone dictionary on more than one occasion.

And so by the time mid-service conference wrapped I still unconvinced that ‘zig’ and ‘zag’ could be used independently. (Can anyone shed some light on this for me?), but re-motivated to tackle Year 2.

In America I never had a reason to bake. My sister was the resident Betty Crocker.

Recently, I have become quite adept at the whole baking thing. Now that I see my ‘red oven’ as soon as I walk through my front door it’s kind of hard to resist.

It took my landlady a few weeks to realize that I was just baking things because I felt like it - or because I needed the stress relief. (Izzie Stevens anyone?) Not in honour of impending visitors. But now that she’s figured it out, she provides the eggs for my endeavors and we split the outcome.

In fact she made her husband (my landlord) take her own ‘red oven’ to the repair shop, so that she can make her own cakes and cookies. We made my landlord an apple cake for his birthday.

I usually end up making something at least once a week. I would be happy to share recipes. But I’ve misplaced my cookbook.

My favorite so far: chocolate hazelnut bread. ☺

So what does my day look like now that I live one place and work in another? Allow me to present my new daily routine.

6:15AM: Wake up. Get dressed. Eat breakfast.

7AM: Walk to bus stop the next street over.

7:15AM: Get on bus. Say Good Morning to my fellow commuters. Plug in iPod.

8AM: Arrive at school.

8-10AM: Sit in English classroom. Prepare lessons. Write letters. Read a book.

10:30AM-2PM: Lessons and after school clubs.

2PM: Walk to neighbours’. Eat lunch.

2:30PM: 4:30PM: Drink tea. Chat. Watch TV. Read book. Take a nap.

4:40PM: Walk to bus stop.

5PM: Bus leaves village

5:45PM: Arrive home.

5:50PM – 6:15PM: Light heater. Get changed. Dance around living room to Taylor Swift. Make dinner.

7PM – 9:30PM: Eat dinner. Do dishes. Watch TV.

10PM: Get into bed.

Repeat three days a week.* Rotate neighbours for lunch duty daily so as to not overwhelm (or eat the same thing every day).

* On Thursdays my classes don’t start until noon, so I head straight for my old host family’s house, and drink tea and watch the kids for my host sister while she does laundry.

I took some brownies up to landlady and landlord on my first Saturday night in my new house, and promptly sat down for some tea. The resultant conversation with my landlord simply cemented my opinion that I would be much happier here.

V: So what do you do with yourself when you are not at school?

Me: I like to read. I just finished my 70th book since moving to Azerbaijan.

V: *entirely unprompted* I hate Dostoevsky.

M: *laughing hysterically* I agree.

V: Seriously…Have you ever read the Brothers Karamazov?

M: No. Not Yet. (But I did bring it back with me from America with the intention of finally reading it.)

V: Don’t bother.

We spent two hours discussing the merits of Russian literature and the demerits of Dostie. Another highlight: V: Dostoevsky is only good for sleeping. Read two pages and you are snoring.

I know that I am in the minority among my friends for my intense dislike of Dostoevsky. But it made me extremely happy to find a kindred spirit living upstairs. Not to mention the fact that it is no longer weird to the people around me that I spend at least two hours a day reading. The villagers are still convinced I am ruining my eyes.

Also, Pushkin apparently mentions the city I live in by name in one of his epic poems. Does someone want to look into that for me?

It took two days and three taxi rides to get me and all my stuff to my new house. Before anyone starts in with the whole “But You're in the Peace Corps, Why All The Stuff?”

Let me defend myself, there were three variables at work here:

- I hadn't unpacked my suitcases from America yet, so two-thirds of my storage capacity was already in use. And kitchen items are bulky.

- As the only AZ7 in two regions, I inherited A LOT of stuff. Which had filled approximately two taxis on 'drop-off' day.

- I had no intention of leaving anything behind for my landlady.

Trust me. I was far from impressed myself. In fact, I spent most of the third taxi ride grumbling about the AZ6s because I was simply moving most of my 'inheritance' back to where it came from in November.

I am my landlady's third PCV, so I had to smile when I returned on Day Two to discover she had already assembled my water filter and set out the water pots. She knows the drill.

She offered to give me various things, but eyeing my extensive collection of house wares, simply concluded: “Really. You have everything you need, don't you?” And as she helped me unpack she observed more than once: “Didn't this belong to PCV L?” My thoughts exactly.

But the best 'Welcome To The Neighbourhood' comment came from my landlady's husband when he came back from his job in Baku that weekend:

“Miss Melissa. Are you my new daughter-in-law?”

He has three sons. The older two are married with children; the youngest one is younger than my little sister. So it was said in jest, but I appreciated the sentiment. And I already feel like a member of the family.

I admit - it is a little bit disheartening to see the tattle-tale Golden Arches superimposed onto a Venetian piazza, in the Hong Kong harbour or on the beaches of a South Pacific island.

But it also comforting to know that wherever you are in the big cities of the world (or the distant outposts) there will most likely be coffee that tastes like it does at home and hot french fries near-by.

To my knowledge there are two McDonald’s in Baku. (It might be three.)

The following story from my Khirdalan host sister demonstrates what completes the trifecta of the familiar that makes McDonald’s in foreign countries so appealing.

J: My son and I were in the McDonald’s last weekend. And he needed to go to the bathroom. So we went to the bathroom. But there was only one stall and it was occupied….Finally the person came out. And if you can believe it - It was PCV K*

So we laughed about meeting in the bathroom, then we had the following conversation:

J: You are welcome to come eat with us, if you want.

PCV K: No. I just came into use the bathroom.

J: Really? You can do that?

K: Probably not. But everyone does. They are always clean.

J: Wow. Good to know. I’ll do that next time.

(It is a truth universally acknowledged!)

In light of this revelation my host sister admitted to me that now whenever she is shopping downtown and needs the bathroom, she heads for McDonald’s. ☺

*PCV K is an AZ8 that stayed next door to Ata this year for PST.

The only downside of my delayed return to Azerbaijan after the holidays was that I had to head back to the village immediately because school had already started. So the next day, Ata drove me to the bus station and put me (and my school bus suitcases) on a bus direct to my village, giving the driver instructions to take me to my front door. (As previously established being Ata’s daughter has its benefits).

Three hours later groggy from a nap I am deposited at my front gate. I go to retrieve my keys and wish my landlady a happy new year. There doesn’t seem to be anything noteworthy to share and I am grateful to be home.

Until I open my front door…

There is a gaping dirt hole where my recently relocated kitchen used to be.

Funny. You would think my landlady would have thought to mention this fact a few minutes ago. Although I am not all that surprised to have been left out of the DIY loop yet again. But enough is enough.

Cue phone call to Peace Corps.

And after multiple phone calls, lengthy negotiations in three languages and 48 hours of hiding under the covers, I was granted permission to move away from the village and into a blissfully construction free environment in the nearby city. (Which quite frankly is what PCV L’s landlady had been asking me to do since the painting in September)

Due to previously mentioned untimely blizzard, my travel plans for my return trip to Azerbaijan had to be altered. But I got a few extra days at home and I knew Ata would still meet me at the airport, so it was just a matter of a few extra showers and a phone call to Azerbaijan.

Except for that fact time zones hate me, my spelling in Azerbaijani is horrendous and I can’t do math.

I called Ata and explained that I would be at the airport a few days late, at midnight on January 5th. But the connection died before I could confirm that he knew what was going on. To make sure they got the message, I sent an email to my host sister’s email with the same information in simplified English and phonetic Azerbaijani. Then just to ensure that I wouldn’t be stranded at the airport I asked a PCV friend to call the day before and remind Ata to come get me. (See, I was trying to be responsible!)

So I land at Baku international airport just after midnight, drag my pair of flourescent yellow duffel bags off the baggage carousel and head over to the line of people at the customs barrier. Then stroll through the sliding glass doors searching for Ata and Ana’s familiar faces in the small crowd of relatives and chauffeurs.

They aren’t there.

The best-laid plans have a habit of being thwarted by my tenuous grasp of mathematics.

So I call Ata. He doesn’t pick up – a good sign - maybe he’s busy driving. I wait a few minutes and try again. This time my sister picks up – she sounds very sleepy.

M: It’s me. I’m at the airport.

J: Now? We thought it was tomorrow.

M: I’m here now.

J: OK. Ata is coming.

So I spend a half hour in the deserted arrivals lounge with a crowd of airport workers and bored chauffeurs watching a replay of some recent European football match on TV. Then after Ata called to tell me he’s pulling into the parking lot, I head outside.

Where I was met with the smiling faces I was expecting an hour ago. Ata has clearly rolled out of bed to come collect me - underneath his winter coat I could see his flannel pajamas. Ana was on his heels, still muttering about how she was right – midnight on the 5th had meant midnight on the 4th. (See! It’s not my fault!)

We were back in the car and on our way home within 5 minutes, then a half hour of apologies later, we were home and in bed before 2AM.

Which leads us to the following three conclusions:

1. I arrived back in Azerbaijan in one piece.

2. Clearly, I need to read Copernicus’ theory about earthly rotation when I am bored this summer.

3. There are only so many people you can call to pick up from the airport in the middle of the night. I feel warm and fuzzy knowing my list just got a little bit longer.

For the sake of my sanity - I don’t want to dwell on America too long; I still have nine months in Azerbaijan – this post is going to be a bullet point list.

Besides, most of what I have to exclaim about are pretty standard occurrences in your half of the world. (And your eyes are probably starting to burn.)

Home

- Indoor plumbing. Twice daily showers. A tub. Triple Win.

- My dog. My bed. Clothes I forgot I owned.

- Washing machine. Dryer. Dishwaser.

- Wi-Fi. TiVo. Netflix. 900+ TV channels in English.

- The Weather. The lack of long-underwear.

Family (+ The Almost Family)

- Meeting my sister’s boyfriend.

- Mom co-ordinating our sleepwear for Christmas morning (Like you’re really surprised...)

- Dad trying to explain the rules of an obscure board game to anyone who would listen.

- Gluwein and Christmas stollen.

- Grandpa warning me that my village stove would not meet fire code in America (If he only knew…)

- International phone calls for only 5 cents a minute.

- Watching awesomely ridiculous black and white WWII era movies with friends. (Guess who got Mission for Moscow for Christmas?)

- Six months of back issues from my favorite magazines, kindly hoarded by neighbours.

Food

- Broccoli. Salmon. Sausage-Ham-Bacon. Gingerbread Lattes. Les’s crepes. Lemon Poppyseed scones. See’s Candy

- Adam making dim-sum from scratch on Christmas Eve. (Thus, avoiding cottage cheese and egg noodles.) You can come back next year!

- The guy at Dunkin Donuts who made me a cinnamon donut on demand.

- The woman at Chick-Fil-A that let me order lunch at 9:30 AM.

The World-At-Large

- $2 for a SINGLE ‘nar’ – WHAT?!

- Why does my new favorite blend of coffee not warrant a 12oz bag?

- Getting lost in the grocery store/Walmart/Target/CostCo (delete as appropriate), phone-less for 10 terrifying minutes.

- my Vietnamese hair-dresser repeatedly exclaiming: ‘That sounds just like my family’s village’ while trying to salvage my hair.

- Half-Price-Books: $25 = 16 books = Winter Boredom Solved

Which brings us to the end of the list. America in 250 words. Be impressed.

I’m sure there is stuff I forgot. Or left out deliberately - I will spare you the details about every little thing I squealed over or bought. Most of it was mundane and I was a little bit over-excitable.

Until December 2011, America.

The flight between Azerbaijan and Dubai was harmless.

The in-flight movie was a rom-com set in a restaurant staring Catherine Zeta-Jones. The food was tolerable. The two old men in the seats next to me split their newly purchased duty-free toffees with me, then spiked their cokes with some duty-free vodka and slept for the remainder of the flight. Three hours later – at 1AM I was on the ground in Dubai. I had an hour and a half to get to my next plane.

It was a long walk – or rather a fairly short walk down what felt like a never-ending hallway. Twenty minutes later I was at the check-in counter and a nice young man (who could have been a slightly older, slightly taller doppleganger for a dear friend of mine) confirmed my seat and called down to the baggage handlers to make sure that my bag would make it onto my plane. Once at my gate, I used the airport WiFi (Cool!) to send a message to the parents confirming I had survived leg one of my journey. Dad wrote back that he had just landed in Houston. Excellent.

And so began Part II…

I had a window seat next to a guy who asked if I thought the stewardess would give him some valium to help him sleep. The guy in the aisle seat pointed out that this was probably prohibited (His word not mine.) I promptly wrapped my scarf around my head village girl style and attempted to sleep.

The movie part of my in-flight entertainment wasn’t really co-operative, so I contented myself with a 2010 country music compilation and some Taylor Swift and Tim McGraw. For 4 hours. Then part of an audio book that inspired Bones. For 45 minutes. Temperance Brennan in Montreal. Pardon!

Also, I was seated in the row where they always run out of choices at mealtime. So I had airplane rogan josh three times. (I don’t even like rogan josh when Mom makes it).

Needless to say… Hours 7, 10 and 15 were particularly soul-destroying.

But at last I was at on the ground in Houston. I was fascinated by the guy in the row in front of me playing with a technological gadget I had never seen before while I waited at immigration. I breezed through customs with my fig preserves and ‘early-release’ DVDs intact.

Then I could see Dad on the other side of the glass doors. (He was kinda hard to miss in his fluorescent yellow Chelsea jersey). Mom was off to side. (I wouldn’t want to associate with Dad in that outfit either.)

And I was home. (Already demanding that we look into a business class upgrade on the return flight.) 24 hours ahead of the original schedule. But still pining for Wagamama’s. And BBF time. Stupid snow…

Rhett Butler was waiting in the car in the parking lot. And there was one of those new technological gadgets on the front seat, so my curiosity was promptly satisfied. Apparently iPad was the new iPod...

I Made Travel Plans, Cue Horrific Blizzard (December)

I should have known better than to expect my trip home for Christmas to be a straight-forward ‘board plane and fly’ affair. I don’t exactly have the best track record with Yuletide travel.

And this year was no exception.

When I left the village on Saturday morning, there was snow falling all over Europe. But I wasn’t particularly worried; I assumed the snow would be cleared by Monday when I was due to land at Heathrow. Then there was another storm on Saturday night. And the busiest airport in Europe shut down for 24 hours. Oops.

As an aside, by this point my father had been stranded at Heathrow for three days. As I watched the news, we traded text messages joking about how we might end up being on the same Houston-bound flight out of London on Tuesday.

Then on Sunday night I scanned the projected flight lists only to discover that my flight had been cancelled. Cue panicked, tearful phone call to Mom. The highlight of which was:

Mom: I understand. We’ll figure it.

M: No. Mom you don’t understand. You haven’t been a Peace Corps volunteer in a village in Azerbaijan for 15 months.

Mom: I know. Just give me a minute.

A comment which sent my English-speaking host sister into hysterics and a translation frenzy to share the laughter with everyone else in the room.

Even through my panic I could see the humour in the situation. I’m sure it was comical to watch me Skype with Mom while she was on the phone with Dad in London, while all three of us simultaneously tried to find me a ticket home.

45-minutes later I had a ticket for the next day via Dubai to Houston. She managed to book Dad on a flight or two as well just to make sure he would make it out of Heathrow in time for my homecoming. Mom should be given a medal for her internet travel agent skills.

So Monday night Ata and I left a electricity-less Khirdalan (So much for my pre-flight shower…) for the airport. We arrived in a timely manner, and ran around trying to figure out which part of the single terminal we were meant to be in. Ata provided sound effects while driving the baggage cart like a 5 year old as we badgered airport employees for information.

Eventually we ended up where we were supposed to be. It took reassurances from multiple people in the three languages that my e-ticket was indeed a valid travel ticket for Ata to believe that I would actually be able to take off. Then after fifteen minutes of Ata bragged to anyone in the vicinity that I was his American daughter, he gave me a hug and a kiss and disappeared with a wave.

Two hours later I was in an aisle seat in an airplane on the runway. Only 8 hours behind schedule….

See next post for the next 22 hours of travel…

I promise I am trying my best to get caught up. I wrote 2 000 words of blog posts today. Add to that the 2000 words from yesterday. And the likely 2000 words I will write on Friday. This brings the grand total for the last 72 hours to 6000 words.

Which means this is officially the most words I have committed to a Word Document since my last semester of college. Please – be impressed.

However, the collective word count on those final college papers caused severe mental strain that I would like to avoid experiencing ever again. Therefore Please – Be patient.

I promise I will be up to date by the end of the month. (I’ve cheated and already written February)

Thanks for (still!) reading ☺

Being sworn in as a PeaceCorps volunteer is one of the big milestones on the PCV timeline. (Duh!).

This year I tagged along to the ceremony to welcome the new volunteers (and miss a few days of school.) Besides, I figured it would be an entertaining afternoon. Ata didn’t disappoint.

Reason 1: A Fast and The Furious Reenactment on the Baku-Sumgayit Highway

As we are driving to the ceremony Ata spots some SUVs with diplomatic tags in front of us, he correctly assumes that these are most likely PeaceCorps vehicles. In light of this discovery, Ata decides it would be fun to floor the accelerator and race the aforementioned vehicles to the ceremony venue. He ignores Ana’s protests and proceeds to re-enact a pseudo-chase on the highway.

By the time we arrive at the venue, Ana is no longer speaking to Ata, and the Peace Corps vehicles have (inexplicably!) arrived before us. And my host nephew wants to go to the bathroom.

Reason 2: Ata is a Proud Papa

When my PCV brother receives his handshake and certificate, Ata lets out a loud whoop, shouting: That’s my son - at the top of his lungs from two rows behind me.

I admit I am grateful that I don’t have to acknowledge I know him. Ana is rolling her eyes in the seat next to me.

Reason 3: Ata Agrees With A Speech

As the host family representative is running down a list of reasons why working and living with PeaceCorps trainees is such a wonderful experience, she is accompanied by Ata shouting ‘I Agree’ at appropriate intervals

At this point, I am sinking into my seat in embarrassment and Ana is shaking her head.

Reason 3.5 Ana Is Awesome

At the end of the host family speech, Ana leans over and whispers: That was good. But I think mine was better.

(It was Ana. It was.)

Reason 3: My Anonymity Is Short-Lived

During one of the speeches, someone makes a reference to the trials and tribulations of being a PCV. Ata more than agrees with this statement. And takes this opportunity to try to get my attention – shouting my name over the applause.

I pull my sweater up to my chin and try not to die of embarrassment.

--

Needless to say, Swear-in 2010 was eventful.

Congrats AZ8s on surviving PST. I promise it only gets easier from here.

Congrats AZ7s We’ve officially been PCVs for a year!

☺

Note: It makes me sad that the original copy of this post was lost during the 2010 New Year’s Eve Hard-Drive Failure. I feel like it lost some of its comic value.

Some background for this post….

There is an Azerbaijani national meal called boz-bash. It is a soup made with meat and potatoes. It usually also involves the addition of chick-peas, spices or greens. The list of possible recipes is beyond my limited scope of recognition.

However, I have learned to recognize that there are usually two types of meat involved. Version 1:Usually called Kifta in Salyan involves giant meatballs. Version 2 is called boz-bash and involves meat on the bone.

Which brings us to our comic relief routine for December….

I am visiting Khirdalan for the weekend. Ana has her hands full, but Ata is hungry.

Ana: Melissa, can you pour Ata some boz-bash?

M: Sure. *goes to kitchen and lifts lid off pot* Ana…There isn’t any boz-bash.

Ana: *coming into the kitchen* What?

M: *points at pot* This is Kifta.

Ana: Yes. Boz-bash.

M: No. Boz-bash has meat on the bone in it. This has giant meatballs, so it’s kifta.

Ana: Yeah. It’s Kifta Boz-bash.

M: *petulantly* No it’s not.

Ana: *starts to laugh* Oh Melissa. You are such a village girl. *pause* Abgul! You have to hear this…

At which point she runs into the living room to tell Ata just how much of a village girl I have become. And as I finish pouring his soup into a bowl, I can hear his laughter at my expense.

Sigh. I’m glad my cultural adaptation continues to amuse those around me. But I think I should get points for being able to recognize the nuances.

And now we come to the post you have all been waiting for:

The largest contributing factor to my general unhappiness for the last part of 2010 and the subsequent lack of blog updates.

When I was shown what would become my new house at the beginning of last summer, I remember asking if the landlady planned to continue the planned renovations while I was living there. After the Ho-Ho-Kus Rennovation of 1995, I am suspicious of anything involving plaster dust and sledgehammers.

And I distinctly remember her replying that there was only some outside work left, which they would do while I was away helping at camps over the summer. Excellent. We shook hands. The next day my fridge and gas-bubble fueled stove were in place. The day after that I was all moved in and doing two weeks worth of laundry.

The summer was wonderful. (See previous blog posts). My landlady stuck to her word and asked me when I was going to be away, and the workers worked around my schedule. And then it was three days before the start of school….

I came back from a weekend in Salyan to neighbours painting inside my house. I had been given no warning. The smell was nauseating, so I promptly caught the first bus the next morning back to Salyan lesson preparation materials in tow. I came back when school started, and the painting was still in progress. But I was willing and able to live around the work since my bedroom and kitchen were still accessible and I could shut out the smell with conveniently placed doors. The work was completed when promised and my living room was now a lovely shade of pink.

Then on a particularly stormy Sunday in October I returned from Salyan to discover my mattress in my living room. Then as soon as the rain stopped workmen I’d never met before were knocking at my door with bags of plaster and sledgehammers. Apparently they’d come to refurbish the room where my kitchen currently was. I had been given no prior warning.

For ten weeks I never knew what would be changed when I left my house for any length of time. At some point in mid-October my kitchen and living room became one. I used my gas bubble on the floor amid the construction in the room next door (the tank was too heavy to move from room to room). Then a few weeks later, I came home to teenage boys dismantling my bedroom. The workmen never kept a reliable schedule, sometimes they would arrive first thing in the morning, sometimes they wouldn’t leave until 1AM, sometimes they would go a week and half without working.

It wasn’t a good situation and there never seemed to be an end in sight. PeaceCorps staff came out to assess the situation and speak to my landlady twice. She blamed the ‘lying workmen’. The village accused me of being un-co-operative and difficult. It was particularly frustrating to hear these things being said because I knew that under NO CIRMCUMSTANCES would they allow their own young women live in a situation such as the one they were expecting me to cope with. It was generally a very negative time in my PeaceCorps service – it was difficult to cope with emotional rollercoaster of my daily life when I didn’t feel comfortable in my own home.

Eventually at the start of December, my kitchen was relocated to a separate room and I was told the work was complete. Just in time for me to head home to America for the holidays….

THANKSGIVING III: THE TIME I MET THE CHARGE D’AFFAIRES (NOVEMBER)

Shortly after arriving at the aforementioned Thanksgiving gathering I was standing in a small group of friends, when a rather tall man approached us and introduced himself. Cue memorable conversation.

CdA: Hi I’m Adam.

*awkward pause* I sort of half-duck to get a better look at his face – trying to determine if I am suffering from some sort of failure of facial recognition recall. (I did mention he was tall, right?)

M: Hi. Um…Sir.

PCV: Did you just curtsy?

M: No.

PCV: Yes, you did! Haha.

M: No really I didn’t. (I am just so awesomely socially awkward).

CdA: That’s not necessary. And you are?

M: Melissa.

CdA: Where do you live?

M: In a village in Salyan.

CdA: Oh I’ve heard the prison there is really nice. (And I am no longer responsible for making this conversation as awkward as possible.)

*awkward pause* as I try to figure exactly how to respond to that.

M: Well. I’ve never been inside, but it looks nice from the outside when I pass it on my way into town. (Success!)

CdA: a memo crossed my desk that’s why I how I heard about it. I hope you have a nice time tonight.

M: Thanks. I need another soda.

The previous charge d’affaires remembered my name because of the speech Ana gave at our Swearing-In. It appears that in the mind of the current charge d’affaires my name will be forever linked with a prison and a misinterpreted ‘curtsy’. Excellent. At least I’m memorable.

One of things that Peace Corps volunteers in Azerbaijan look forward to during their service is Thanksgiving dinner at the Ambassador’s Residence in Baku. (Even though there isn’t an official US ambassador to Azerbaijan at present.) It is a privilege limited to official volunteers, therefore not something I got to experience during my first November in country when I was a trainee. Turkeys and soft drinks are provided by PeaceCorps, table linens and plates are provided the embassy, and sides and pies made by PCVs. In theory it sounds like a very low-key event – until you consider that there are 100 + PCVs in which case it becomes less of a low-key evening and more of a happy chaotic gathering. This all occurred on the Saturday nearest Thanksgiving. (It felt wonderfully appropriate to me).

The food was great. Even if the concept of queue-ing in one direction was a little lost. (I blame the fact that we have to fight the line-lacking mobs at the ATMs on a regular basis). There was a severe lack of mashed potatoes. 100+ people and only one person thought to bring mashed potatoes! But there were about six different green bean casseroles, so I was more than willing to forego the spuds. As a side note: Pomegranate sauce makes an excellent substitute for cranberry sauce – just don’t ask me for the recipe.

I spent most of the evening on a couch in the corner with most of the other village-dwelling and/or usually-stay-at-site PCVs. We were a little bit shell-shocked by the number of people. Most of whom we freely admitted to each other we hadn’t seen since the last official PeaceCorps conference. Also, there was no tea on offer at any point, and so we legitimately spent an hour lamenting the absence of ‘chai’. (Cultural integration, anyone?)

Other highlights of the evening included a talent show that involved a lot of site-mate serenades, an appearance of a crocheted American flag, a selection of little known and interesting facts (I admit this was my favorite part), and a poetry recitation by the Charge d’Affairs. There was also a random visit by a pair of American diplomats, who looked more than a little surprised when they opened to the front door and were greeted by of PCVs mid-party.

Accommodation for the evening was provided by embassy families. The couple that I stayed with had only recently arrived in Azerbaijan, so were full of questions about their new home. They were also anxious to get a copy of my “award-winning” pomegranate bread recipe. (Ever the good houseguest I brought baked goods). And after the PCV party, I went over to their neighbours’ house for pepperoni pizza and beer. Where my hosts were shocked to learn I speak Azerbaijani well enough to understand local television. Which seems normal to me, but hearing their surprise made me realize is an accomplishment. Weird, right?

Oh and lastly, I met the charge d’affairs and comic social awkwardness ensued. Like you would expect anything else? See next post.

It was Thanksgiving Thursday. I felt inclined to mark the occasion in some sort of suitable manner. Also, the rooster in my yard woke me up at 6AM, but I didn’t have class until 12:30PM. So I did what anyone who has a pumpkin left over from Halloween sitting on top of their fridge would do. I decided to make a pumpkin pie.

Nevermind the fact that I’d never made a pumpkin pie before. Or ever seen anyone make one. Wait that’s a lie – one November I watched Grandma make one that was vegan-friendly. But even she was skeptical that it could be considered pie – so that one doesn’t count. (Sorry Sis!)

But I digress…

It was 6:15 on a November morning. I had a pumpkin straight from the backyard of one of my students; a stick of butter; a bag of flour, some sugar and an assortment of spices from my PCV ‘inheritance’.

The pie crust was suspiciously easy to put together. Although the PCV friendly cookbook suggested the use of a pastry-blender, which was a little bit out of place. (Ever the Girl Scout: I used two knives instead.) So the butter wasn’t exactly blended into the dough. But the crust was safely in the fridge – not because the fridge was working but because I needed the table space - before 7AM.

And now the pumpkin…

It was a pretty awesome pumpkin. It was a nice autumnal orange colour. It looked like it could have been a model for a Good Housekeeping harvest spread. It was more of a plump gourd shape rather than the spherical shapes favoured by Jack O’Lantern enthusiasts. (The reason it had been sitting around for three weeks). Come to think of it I’m pretty sure that Azerbaijani pumpkins actually fall into the butternut squash category in American parlance. But it tastes like a pumpkin.

Alas, this is where the trouble-shooting starts. I didn’t have a knife sharp enough to slice the pumpkin. Or electricity. Excellent. This was going to be fun.

I had to peel and cube the pumpkin by hand. This took the better part of three hours. (See note about knives). I split the pumpkin into quarters to make my task more manageable. Then peeled it. Then chopped it. A succinct description, which doesn’t really do justice to the blood and sweat that was involved in this process. There was also a colourful soundtrack of cursing in three languages. But I managed it (and only needed one trip to my medical kit.)

After the fact, Mom so helpfully suggested that I should have baked the halves than scooped out the soft stuff. (See note about electricity). Besides my way makes a more authentic ‘PCV Life’ story.

Cooking the pumpkin should have been easy. Just throw the rest of the ingredients in a pot with pumpkin pieces and boil until soft. By the grace of the AZ6s before me and their gift of a little red jar labeled ‘pumpkin pie spice’ I didn’t even have to bother with precise spice measurements. Cue issues with my single burner and collection of pots ‘perfect for one’. So the cooking happened in shifts. By this point, it was approaching 11AM.

The pie was ready for the oven by 12PM. The electricity came back on a few minutes after that. Perfect. Except for the fact that I was supposed to be at school at 12:30PM. So while I ran around getting dressed and sorted for school, my pie reached the half –baked stage. Then I turned off the oven and scampered off the school – the only clue that I’d spent 6 hours making a pie were the plaster on my index finger and the blisters forming on my stirring hand.

I got home from school. Baked the pie the rest of the way. Then wandered through the village holding a pie fresh out of the oven in my oven-mitted hands to ensure that all my neighbours got a piece. (I kinda wish the village boys who were laughing at my progress had taken out their camera phones.)

So that’s my story for Thanksgiving 2010. See next post for more traditional celebrations.

Oh and the pie was VERY tasty.

The cliché goes that college students live off of cup-of-soup and ramen noodles. Circumstances dictate that this PCV lives off soups made from scratch. The autumn chill and my lack of a kitchen means that I have become quite proficient at making soup using pot on my single burner.

These are my favourite recipes. Each one yields 2 servings. (Lunch and Dinner)

CARROT AND CORRIANDER SOUP – because goyerti (greens) are always plentiful

Stuff You Need:

- 1 kg carrots

- 3 cups stock/water

- 2 onions, chopped

- 6 cloves garlic, minced

- 2 potatoes, diced

- 4 bunches fresh coriander (cilantro), diced

Stuff You Do:

1. Peel and cut carrots and potatoes. Put in pot with stock/water and boil until soft.

2. Sauté onions and garlic in a small saucepan. Add chopped coriander and sauté for another minute or two.

3. Add sautéd stuff to boiled carrots and potatoes. Simmer for 15 minutes. Mash/blend until desired consistency.

CHINESE TOMATO SOUP – because it takes 5 minutes to make

Stuff You Need:

- ½ kilo of tomatoes (about 4-5)

- 1 tbs olive/peanut oil.

- 2-3 green onions, chopped

- 4 cups stock/water

- 1 egg, slightly beaten

- dash of salt, cayenne pepper or roasted garlic, to taste

Stuff You Do:

1. Heat oil until hot. Add tomatoes and green onions and stir-fry for 2 minutes.

2. Add broth and bring to a boil.

3. Stir in egg and spices.

4. Cook until egg is slightly set – about 30 seconds.

PERSIAN SPINACH AND LENTIL SOUP – because I need protein from somewhere

Stuff You Need:

- 3 cups cooked lentils

- 3 bunches of spinach, finely chopped

- 2 cups water/stock

- 1 large onion, chopped

- 4 cloves garlic, chopped

- 1 small piece ginger, chopped (or 2 tsp dried)

- 1 small chili pepper, chopped (or 1 tsp chili powder)

- 1 tbs cumin

Stuff You Do:

1. Sauté onion. Add garlic, ginger, chili and cumin. Sweat with lid on for 2-3 minutes. (Don’t let it burn!).

2. Add lentils and stock. Bring to a boil.

3. Add spinach and simmer until spinach is cooked.

As I was uploading my ‘Mea Culpa Memo Misplaced’ post, I discovered that part of the infamous list does still exist. The wonders of a temporarily misplaced USB drive.

FROM DECEMBER 3, 2010:

I am aware of the fact that there has been a severe lack of updates on this blog recently. Something I had every intention of rectifying tonight. I was all prepared. I had a list of topics, a comfy cushion and a cup of tea (or six).

Then I got distracted. (I am my mother’s daughter.) And an hour later and the thought of trying to condense the last three weeks or so into cyber-friendly anecdotes makes me want to curl up in bed with a book or DVD until tomorrow morning. Apologies.

However, my calendar informs me that I have a 15-hour plane journey to look forward to in the very near future. (For the first time in my life, I am crossing days off a calendar). So I promise I shall attempt to make up my update deficit while cruising through the stratosphere. (Given that compliments of the early-release DVD stores in Baku, I will probably have already seen the in-flight movies.)

But I feel guilty leaving you empty-handed, so here’s a list of what you have to look forward to reading about….

- The time I tried to outsmart the (Azerbaijani) Presidential Motorcade.

- Universal Truth #1293: uncooperative and dishonest construction workers are universal.

- Emotional burn-out happens in Azerbaijan too -- in spectacular fashion.

- Care packages have been known to create village drama

- Thanksgiving I: I made a pumpkin pie ENTIRELY from scratch. Be impressed.

- Thanksgiving II: 100+ PCVs at the Ambassador’s Residence in Baku.

- I am (an unwilling) Dr. Dolittle: Sheep, Mice and Roosters

- I have become a soup-maker extraordinaire.

Which just about brings us up-to-date. I hope.

Plus, I still need to share an embarrassing incident, a story entitled: “The Time Leslie Sold My Heart For a Piece of (Belgian) Chocolate.”

Even when I was at a loss for how to express myself in a blog appropriate manner at the end of last year, I knew the words would catch up with my emotions eventually. So I kept a list of the things I wanted to make sure made it onto the blog at some point. I like making lists – it’s my one concession to keeping up the appearance of being organized.

This particular list travelled halfway around the world. I thought my 22-hour plane journey home for Christmas would be the perfect blog update opportunity. It turns out that trans-world flights are not quite as transcendentalist as trans-Atlantic ones. (Hours 7, 10 and 16 were particularly soul destroying.) And so the list travelled back again – unused.

Only to disappear into the piles of paperwork and chaos that is my life back in Azerbaijan. Oops. So much for being organized. (See note about keeping up appearances above.) Ergo, I sat down this morning only to discover that I will have to play catch-up without the aid of my meticulous list. And Chocolate Peppermint coffee is a poor substitute for instant recall – But it tastes just like Peppermint Bark, so I’m going to have a second cup anyway.

This unfortunate chain of events is compounded by two more less than ideal circumstances. A) My memory is selective about the things it chooses to remember in excruciating and entertaining detail. B) For a student of history my grasp of the concept of chronology is shockingly bad. – You think that it would be easy to keep track of which 5 Year Plan was which – It’s not. I don’t like Math.

Which is all a long-winded, caffeine-inspired way of saying that my plan for timely, chronological updates – thus maintaining the illusion of continuity – has to be abandoned.

So I apologise in advance for any sense of rollcoaster-like whiplash my handling of the last three months may cause you. (My new site-mate was recently exposed to my talent for starting sentences mid-thought. It was entertaining.)

I wonder if Mr. Verne has finished refurbishing my time machine….

Dear Reader: Worry not! I am still alive. And I have no intention of abandoning this blog.

As some of you may know from the letters I have written you and/or the conversations we had while I was home for Christmas, November was a particularly rough month in the life of this particular PCV, so I wasn’t really in the mood to post about my life in cyber-space. And it is a truth universally acknowledged that once one falls off the ‘routine update’ wagon it is hard to get back on.

So I apologise for my absence.

(I also would like to apologise to myself for making a Jane Eyre AND a Pride& Prejudice allusion in the space of 100 words. Sigh.)

Why have I returned (at last!) you may ask?

I’ve relocated to a house that is blissfully construction free - equipped with gas heat and a four-burner stove to boot! (And my daily routine now involves an hour and a half commute.)

So I shall endeavour to summarise the last three months for your enjoyment and enlightenment as soon as possible. I will post current and past entries simultaneously until I am caught up. So the entries about November, December and January will be subtitled: The Back Log. And the current ones (February) will look like usual. I trust that you are capable of dealing with this tear in the time-space continuum. (I feel that a Hitch- Hiker’s Guide reference at this juncture would redeem me, but I find myself lacking. Sad.)

Also this proposed renaissance is scheduled to commence after I return from the AZ7 mid-service conference in Baku the week after next. I am up in my eyeballs in paperwork and personal reflection for aforementioned conference until then. I’ve always been a procrastinator. Oops.

My sitemate finished her 27 months of service last week. Sending her on her way was one of my more bittersweet Peace Corps experiences. But I have plenty of happy and rewarding memories of our time together to help me survive the winter without her.

I am aware that that last sentence reads like the unhappy ending to some sort of teenage melodrama so let me rephrase: I will miss her gas heat, reliable electricity and the 4 burners on her stove. I am far too practical to resort to crying jags. (Haha.)

Leslie taught me some important PCV survival skills:

There is no such thing as too much toilet paper. One should have at least six rolls in reserve at any given time.

Sometimes the only way to recover from a particularly rough day is make obscene quantities of popcorn and watch Mama Mia. (Singing along with Meryl Streep is optional. Sorta.)

Whenever at a loss about what to make for dinner, there will always be surplus of chicken noodle soup in the pantry.

Leslie also made my life just a little bit easier:

She read The Economist magazines my mother sent so that I didn’t have to.

She always did the washing up. (I have always had a tendency to never do my dishes.)

She single-handedly taught the majority of the shopkeepers in our city the English words for most of the foodstuffs on my shopping lists.

She left me an incredible collection of DVDs (albeit frustratingly non-sequential ones.)

She left me her internet-enabled phone. Which will be awesome. As soon as I figure out how to use it…

But the more entertaining aspects of our give and take relationship aside, I am going to miss her more than I am willing to admit in cyberspace. We made a great team. It takes a special sort of person to serve in this region. And she made it the two full years.

Enjoy that steak (and the indoor plumbing), Leslie. You’ve earned it. J

A few days before Halloween I was over at my neighbours’ drinking tea, and trying to figure out the logistics of having a costume party in the village.

Due to my lack of imagination the best way I could think to explain Halloween in Azerbaijani was as ‘the candy holiday for children.’ I thought it was a pretty accurate description. Fortunately, someone realised I was talking about Halloween. Although the revelation that such a holiday actually exists caused much laughter - the mother of the family had been sure I’d been joking. America really is a strange and wonderful place.

(But Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory is better.)

I went out and bought an obscene amount of candy from the village store. If nothing else, I could eat it myself. The resulting purchase of two kilos of refined sugar in various forms confused the shopkeeper. Remember this is the guy I buy my mass quantities of spinach and carrots from. I was acting a little bit out of character.

Sunday was a grey and rainy day. Which did not bode well for the mini costume party I had planned for my 6th graders. (The 6th grade English textbook has a text on Halloween.)

The final count was six kids. Three of whom were my landlady’s children (and therefore live across the street.) But I did have one student come who traveled from the opposite side of the village. The other two were my Director’s granddaughters. The number is un-important.

Most importantly: There were costumes. Properly thought out and elaborately executed costumes. There was a pirate – complete with eye patch, goatee and skull and cross bones flag. There was a wizard- complete with starry cone hat and black cape. There was a princess – complete with fur stole and heels. There was a vampire – whose costume consisted of turning up the collar of a black trench-coat yet was very effective. (If said coat had been a few sizes bigger I would have stolen it for myself.) So I’d like to think I spent Halloween in the company of Jack Sparrow, Harry Potter, Princess Anastasia and a distant relative of Edward Cullen. I was so impressed I took pictures.

I’m pretty sure these kids put more thought into their costumes than I have ever put into any of my own. I didn’t dress up especially for the party, but I feel like the bizarre collection of clothing I had to wear in order to stay warm qualifies as a rather convincing impersonation of Miss. Haversham, if she had lived during the 21st century in Azerbaijan. (I would like to take this opportunity to admit the only version I have ever read of Great Expectations was written for 9-year-olds.)

Then we spent a rather enjoyable hour drawing and playing party games. I tried to get the kids to draw jack o’laterns, but my good intentions were thwarted by culture. Pumpkins in Azerbaijan just aren’t shaped that way. Due to improper instruments (read: blunt knife) I had to abandon my attempt to carve a pumpkin. Which was probably the best possible outcome for all involved. Then we played Time Bingo (got to educate at every opportunity) and pin the tail on the donkey. A good time was had by all.

I would consider it a definitive success. Even if the concept of consuming mass quanities of candy was lost on the majority of the attendees – that’s OK more for me!

I only get to spend 1 hour a week with Latifa's 8th form class. I don't get a chance to visit with Tofig's section at all. And by this age, the students have either decided whether they want to learn English or not. (The motivated kids get a spot in my clubs. The others I don't see outside of that single hour of class)

Today. I was working with this class. On Monday, they had talked about 'if clauses' and Latifa said no one really understood the concept.

So I wrote "If I had a million dollars, I would...." on the blackboard. Then I went around the classroom and asked each student what they would do with a million dollars. Everyone willing participated. A feat in itself. Most were the standard answers you would expect. ' I would buy a house.' ' I would buy a car.' 'I would travel around the world.' Xeyala was the last girl to speak: ' I would use half the money to buy a house for my family. I would give the other half to charity.' I was blown away. I've never heard anyone in this country refer to charities, let alone giving money to such an organisation. I was impressed

Then I wrote "If I could be someone famous or important, I would want to be..." on the blackboard. The majority of the students wanted to be various actors and actresses or popstars of the Eurovision variety. Some of the boys wanted to be footballers. The usual stuff. Some had more realistic ambitions. One boy wanted to be a policeman. One girl wanted to be a university director.

Then Xeyala spoke up again: "If I could be someone famous or important I would want to be a Peace Corps Volunteer like Miss. Melissa, so I could travel to different countries and teach and help people."

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

This girl is one of the students that transferred into Latifa's section from Tofig's class at the start of the year because she said she wasn't learning English in the other class. She sought me out to ask for a place in my most advanced club, and promised she would keep up. And she has. In fact she's probably the hardest working. . She is a quiet, studious (and clearly very thoughtful) young lady.

Her name is Xeyala Xeyala translates from Azerbaijani as dream or day-dream.

And it wasn't so much the inherent compliment in her statement. Or that she said the whole sentence in English. It was the fact that my mere presence in the classroom inspired Xeyala to dream for herself

I don't always feel like my monkey like antics at the front of the classroom make all that much of a difference in my students' learning process. Or that my presence in the village is little more than the foreigner who lives in the half-built house with no TV and occasionally shows up for tea or a meal.

But when little moments like today happen. I realise that it doesn't matter if I'm not the best or most creative teacher in the world. Or that I am not a bad person if I don't leave my house every single afternoon to socialise with my neighbours.

I am here.

That simple fact makes all the difference in the world to the people of a village In one of the most looked-down upon regions in the country. More than I will probably ever realise.

I only get to spend 1 hour a week with Latifa's 8th form class. I don't get a chance to visit with Tofig's section at all. And by this age, the students have either decided whether they want to learn English or not. (The motivated kids get a spot in my clubs. The others I don't see outside of that single hour of class)

Today. I was working with this class. On Monday, they had talked about 'if clauses' and Latifa said no one really understood the concept.

So I wrote "If I had a million dollars, I would...." on the blackboard. Then I went around the classroom and asked each student what they would do with a million dollars. Everyone willing participated. A feat in itself. Most were the standard answers you would expect. ' I would buy a house.' ' I would buy a car.' 'I would travel around the world.' Xeyala was the last girl to speak: ' I would use half the money to buy a house for my family. I would give the other half to charity.' I was blown away. I've never heard anyone in this country refer to charities, let alone giving money to such an organisation. I was impressed

Then I wrote "If I could be someone famous or important, I would want to be..." on the blackboard. The majority of the students wanted to be various actors and actresses or popstars of the Eurovision variety. Some of the boys wanted to be footballers. The usual stuff. Some had more realistic ambitions. One boy wanted to be a policeman. One girl wanted to be a university director.

Then Xeyala spoke up again: "If I could be someone famous or important I would want to be a Peace Corps Volunteer like Miss. Melissa, so I could travel to different countries and teach and help people."

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

This girl is one of the students that transferred into Latifa's section from Tofig's class at the start of the year because she said she wasn't learning English in the other class. She sought me out to ask for a place in my most advanced club, and promised she would keep up. And she has. In fact she's probably the hardest working. . She is a quiet, studious (and clearly very thoughtful) young lady.

Her name is Xeyala Xeyala translates from Azerbaijani as dream or day-dream.

And it wasn't so much the inherent compliment in her statement. Or that she said the whole sentence in English. It was the fact that my mere presence in the classroom inspired Xeyala to dream for herself

I don't always feel like my monkey like antics at the front of the classroom make all that much of a difference in my students' learning process. Or that my presence in the village is little more than the foreigner who lives in the half-built house with no TV and occasionally shows up for tea or a meal.

But when little moments like today happen. I realise that it doesn't matter if I'm not the best or most creative teacher in the world. Or that I am not a bad person if I don't leave my house every single afternoon to socialise with my neighbours.

I am here.

That simple fact makes all the difference in the world to the people of a village In one of the most looked-down upon regions in the country. More than I will probably ever realise.

I’m not going to lie. I have a favourite class. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I can’t help it.

Here are some excerpts from class this week. See for yourself.

M: Has anyone ever been to London?

Student N: In my dreams

(He said this in English.  )

M: *writes ‘I’m in a hurry’ on the blackboard* What does this say?

Student O: I’m Hungry!

(This was especially funny because it was the lesson before lunch.)

M: *explains possessive and object pronouns at length* Does everyone understand?

Student O: We learned this in 5th form. Of course we do.

Five Reasons I Love 7B

I’m not going to lie. I have a favourite class. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I can’t help it.

Here are some excerpts from class this week. See for yourself.

M: Has anyone ever been to London?

Student N: In my dreams

(He said this in English.  )

M: *writes ‘I’m in a hurry’ on the blackboard* What does this say?

Student O: I’m Hungry!

(This was especially funny because it was the lesson before lunch.)

M: *explains possessive and object pronouns at length* Does everyone understand?

Student O: We learned this in 5th form. Of course we do.

(Well. That will teach me to over-simplify.)

M: Did you do the homework?

Student E: No. I was lazy.

(Give him credit for being honest).

Student N: *writes the vocabulary for the day on the board*

M: Very good. Everything is correct.

Students E and N: Teacher there are four different spelling mistakes in the words.

M: *genuinely confused* Where? Come to the blackboard and show me.

(Clearly I need to re-learn the ‘i before e except after c’ rule. Oops.)

M: Did you do the homework?

Student E: No. I was lazy.

(Give him credit for being honest).

Student N: *writes the vocabulary for the day on the board*

M: Very good. Everything is correct.

Students E and N: Teacher there are four different spelling mistakes in the words.

M: *genuinely confused* Where? Come to the blackboard and show me.

(Clearly I need to re-learn the ‘i before e except after c’ rule. Oops.)

I have to admit I’ve also watched a fair amount of TV over the past year. Of particular note:

Glee: Season 1

Bones: Seasons 1-5

Mad Men: Seasons 1-3

Which seems like a rather uninspiring list. Until you convert those numbers into individual hours. Personally I haven’t done the math, mostly because I’m sure I would hate myself.

Suffice to say: there was a solid three week period this summer where I watched at least 3 episodes of Bones a day. (It’s addictive!)

I’m sure the list will grow exponentially this winter when I inherit my site-mate’s DVD collection. (As long as the power holds out.)

Any other ‘can’t miss TV’ I should try to find-borrow-buy? I’m open to suggestions.

I’ve read a lot this year. Recently a few people have asked what sort of books I’ve been reading. Being the nerd that I am, I’ve kept a list. There are also two sentence summaries of each book; a list of favourite quotations and a running page count in a notebook with the list. But let’s not get carried away.

Yes. I am aware it is heavy on the Soviet inspired stuff. And that Dostie and Dickens are conspicuously absent. Oops. Don’t judge me for the presence of Chick-Lit.

* denotes the books I recommend

+ denotes the books I’ve read before

- Azerbaijan Diary: T. Goltz

- Suite Francaise: I. Nemirovsky

- Eat Pray Love: E. Glibert

- House For Mr. Biswas: VS Naipaul

- Someone Else’s Daughter: ??

- Belong to Me: M. de Los Santos

- A Dive From Clauson’s Pier: A. Packer

- Love Walked In: M. de Los Santos

- Out Stealing Horses: P. Petterson

- A Kiss For Maddelena: C. Castellani

- Chasing Harry Winston: L Weisberger

- The Jane Austen Book Club: K.J Fowler

- My Sister’s Keeper: J. Picoult

- The Bronze Horseman: P. Simmons * +

- The Soloist: S. Lopez

- The Freedom Writer’s Diary: E. Grunwell

- Confessions of a Shopaholic: S. Kinsella

- The Story of Edgar Sawtelle: D. Woblenski *

- The English: A Portrait of a People: J. Paxman

- Revolutionary Road: R. Yates

- Like Water For Chocolate: L Esquivel *

- A Window Across the River: B. Morton

- The Secret Speech: T.R. Smith

- Crossing Washington Square: J. Rendell

- Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society: M.A. Shaffer *

- Water For Elephants: S. Gruen * * * (READ THIS!)

- Lost and Found: J. Sigaloff

- Julie and Julia: J. Powell

- Me Talk Pretty One Day: D. Sedaris

- Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard: K. Desai

- The Mermaid Chair: S.M. Kidd

- A Tree Grows In Brooklyn: B. Smith *

- The Shipping News: E.A. Prolux

- The Joy Luck Club: A. Tan

- Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: J. le Carre

- The Heretic’s Daughter: K. Kent

- Girls of Riyadh: R. Alsanea *

- The Other Queen: P. Gregory

- How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents: J. Alvarez

- The Girl in Hyacinth Blue: S. Vreeland

- The Yiddish Policemen’s Union: M. Chabon

- Two Years in Poland and Other Stories: A Peace Corps Memoir: L. Siddell

- Harvesting the Heart: J. Picoult

- How Soccer Explains the World: F. Foer

- Bliss, Remembered: F. Deford

- The Angel of Grozny: Orphans of a Forgotten War: A. Seierstad

- Nineteen Minutes: J. Picoult *

- The White Tiger: A. Adiga

- Rumour Has It: J. Mansell

- Africa United: S. Bloomfield

- The Piano Tuner: D. Mason

- The Other Side of the Story: M. Keyes

- Absurdistan: G. Shteyngart *

- The Red Scarf: K. Furnivall

- Marley and Me: J. Groban

- The Secret Life of Bees: S.M. Kidd +

And the most quotable entry in the quotation collection:

“[Dressed] Like a missionary, her cousins will say, like one of those Peace Corps girls who have let themselves go so as to do dubious good in the world.” - How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents

This little gem inserts itself into almost every conversation my site-mate and I have about the deterioration of our wardrobes.